


Once Upon a December

by kirion_loveless



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: (no actual suicide don't worry), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Anastasia Fusion, Amnesia, Blood and Injury, Character Death, Dancing, Death, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Burn, Slow Dancing, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-11-07 05:49:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17954762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirion_loveless/pseuds/kirion_loveless
Summary: “Watch where you’re walking,” Baz hissed at the man.“Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I’m just in a good mood! Haven’t you heard the rumor?” His eyes glinted with excitement.“What rumor?” Baz asked, lifting himself up from the ground.“The Mage’s Heir, Prince Simon, might still be alive! And I heard that his grandmother might pay whoever can bring him back!”“What--”The man cut Baz off, covering Baz’s mouth with his hand. “But, please, do not repeat.”Baz pushed his hand away, and glared at the man. “I don’t plan on it.”





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings for the prologue (spoilers):  
> Death, blood
> 
>  
> 
> If you would rather not read that, head to the bottom for a quick summary.

**March 15th, 1917**

**St. Petersburg, Russia**

Tsar Davidovich Aleksandr Solsberi was forced to abdicate the Russian throne, after a twenty-three year rule. He and his family moved from St. Petersburg to their summer home in Yekaterinburg, away from the angry Russians that supported their removal. The Krovs, a communist revolutionary group, seized power of Russia and brought forth what they thought would help the Russians recover. They worked to abolish the Provisional Government, and brought in a new set of standards that would help Russia thrive past the monarchy… 

 

**December 17th, 1918**

**Yekaterinburg, Russia**

On an otherwise cold, dark night in  Yekaterinburg , the center of the city was warm and bright. The Tsar was holding an extravagant ball, with colored lights and music so lively it seemed to glow as well. 

Simon Snow Solsberi was in the heart of it all. He was the son and heir to the Tsar, and on this night, was surrounded by friends and family. The young boy, only eleven, had become nearly overwhelmed by the love and joy in the room. 

He pressed himself against his mother's side, breathing in the scent of her flowery perfume, as her periwinkle dress rubbed against his cheek. She laughed, and he felt as though he were standing next to a fire.

In fact, he felt extremely warm. He wiped at his forehead, but it felt like the room was only getting warmer. A woman beside him fluttered her lacey fan faster, murmuring something about the unbearable heat, and Simon frowned up at his mother. A bit of her blonde hair had come out of its braid and was sticking to her cheek. She smiled at him, but he could tell something was wrong.

The most tremendous sound Simon had ever heard shook the room-- literally shook it, sending a few women to the ground. The heat that had already been unbearable only grew, washing over him in seconds. His mother shrieked, and another boom resounded through the palace.

People were running now, but no one seemed to know  _ where _ to run. Simon found himself jostled between countless bodies, suffocated by loose fabric and long hair, and his shirt was drenched with sweat. Desperately, he turned to the long table, the one draped with cloth. He moved to throw himself under it when a third blast, much, much closer, sent him flying. Searing pain flew through him as his head hit the corner of the table. He crumpled to the ground.

Surrounded by heat and light and sound, he waited.

After several minutes, Simon sat up. The party had been so loud, followed by the terrible banging, but now, there was only silence. 

He looked out across the ballroom, but his vision was blurry. He wiped at his eyes, and a few tears fell. His breath hitched when he saw a familiar blue dress, stained red.

He ran. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who didn't want to read this chapter for the warnings:  
> Eleven-year-old Simon Solsberi, the heir to the Russian throne, is at a party with his family when a series of explosions kill everyone else there. He hits his head due to the force of the blast. He runs from the party.
> 
>  
> 
> Stay tuned, we'll be updating every Sunday!


	2. Rumor in St. Petersburg

**Seven years later…**

The imperialist Russian Empire died in 1918, when the Tsar and his family did on that horrible night in Yekaterinburg. The Krovs, still in power, rename St. Petersburg to Leningrad. It becomes the people’s city, and not the Tsar’s, as Petersburg had been. They brought their communist ways to the Russian people, who accepted them gratefully, in desperate need for change…

 ~

**February 10th, 1924**

**Leningrad, Russia**

Baz trudged through the snowy streets of Leningrad, pulling his jacket closer for warmth. His Aunt Fiona sauntered on behind him, stopping at every shop on the side of the street.

“Russia’s gone to hell,” Fiona mumbled to Baz upon seeing a vendor’s sign. “7 rubles for a loaf of bread-- we get paid half of that!”

Baz shook his head. “We have to get out of here.”  
“We’ve tried, Baz. Twice!”

“And we’ll keep trying,” Baz said, a determined look on his face.

“We can’t,” Fiona said. “You know we can’t. We’re already wanted for thievery. If we’re caught again, we’re done for. Our status won’t save us forever.”

Baz sighed and kept walking down the cobbled road.

Fiona and Baz come from a wealthy family of counts and countesses, but were left to the streets when their family tossed Baz out.

“ _If he’s gone, I’m gone,_ _”_ Fiona had said to Baz’s father that night.

“ _Then so be it,_ ” he'd sneered, slamming the door in their faces.

Fiona loved to use their wealth. When they still lived with Baz’s family, she always bought the most luxurious and wealthy items available. All of her clothes were top of the line, and she never had to worry about going hungry.

But that was years ago, in St. Petersburg.

Now, in Leningrad, she and her nephew struggled to survive. They lived off of food scraps, and their clothes were rags. Now, there was no place to call home.

“There _must_ be a way,” Baz said.

Baz turned around to face Fiona. However, he was greeted by another man, whom he barreled into.

“Watch where you’re walking,” Baz hissed at the man.

“Sorry,” he said, running a hand through his curly hair. “I’m just in a good mood! Haven’t you heard the rumor?” His blue eyes glinted with excitement.

“What rumor?” Baz asked, lifting himself up from the ground.

“The Mage’s Heir, Prince Simon, might still be alive! And I heard that his grandmother might pay whoever can bring him back!”

“What--”  
The man cut Baz off, covering Baz’s mouth with his hand. “But, please, do not repeat.”

Baz pushed his hand away, and glared at the man. “I don’t plan on it,” he scowled.

The man nodded, and gave Baz a small smile before running away.

“See what I mean, Fiona?” Baz said, pointing at where the man had been standing seconds earlier.

“They’re mad, all of ‘em,” Fiona murmured. “Rumors of the lost prince! How crazy!”

“Maybe not crazy,” Baz said, an idea forming in his head.

Fiona saw the dangerous expression on Baz’s face. His plotting face. “Stop whatever it is you're thinking, stop it right now.”

“It’s Simon! Simon can get us out.”  
“How?” Fiona groaned.

“We’ll find someone, _anyone_ , to pose as Simon,” Baz explained. “We can tell him what to say, what to do, what to wear…We can teach him everything! It’s foolproof!”

“It’s a fool’s plan, that’s what it is,” Fiona responded.

“It’s our only hope, though.”

Fiona sighed in defeat. “Let’s find ourselves a prince.”

~

Baz squinted, examining what felt like the thousandth man in line. He was a little closer to what Simon had looked like, but still not quite right.

It was the eyes, he decided. They were green, not blue.

“It's close,” he admitted, and the man grinned excitedly, “but not perfect.” The smile dissolved into a snarl.

As the man stalked past him, Baz stared out at the still-sprawling line. Were there really this many Russian men hoping to leave the country with them? (Some of them weren’t even men!)

It wouldn’t be nearly as frustrating if any of them had actually looked like Simon. There were men with the right hair color, a deep gold shade, but it was straightened to the point that Baz thought it might snap. Others with the right eye shape, but the wrong color. They could even be blue, but they were too vibrant or too close to green, and Baz remembered how remarkably ordinary Simon’s eyes had been.

“Oh, come on,” Fiona sighed to his right. “Just pick someone. They don’t have to be perfect.”

Baz shook his head. “She’ll know! He has to be convincing.” He turned back to the line. “Next,” he grumbled.

A man with bright red hair stepped forward, and Baz swore he felt a blood vessel burst.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “We’re taking five.”

The line burst into complaints, but he ignored them, grabbing Fiona by the arm and pulling her into a small office.

Baz leaned against the closed door, exhausted. “I need a smoke.” He rummaged around in his pocket for a cigarette, but came up empty-handed. “Damn it all.”

Fiona rolled her eyes. “If you weren’t such a perfectionist, we wouldn’t have this problem. We’ve gone through…” she sneered at her list. “Nearly a hundred people already. I thought at least a quarter of ‘em were good enough.”

Baz shook his head. “Good enough isn’t good enough, Fiona.”

She elbowed him, smiling a little. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head. We’ll pull it off, you’ll see.”

Baz closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. In one swift move, he opened his eyes, turned, and pulled the door open again. He took his place again at the front of the room and called out for the next person.

Suddenly, the door flew open. A figure stood in the doorway, but with the sunlight streaming in behind him he became a silhouette, face lost in shadow and hair set on fire.

He stepped into the room and the illusion was lost, but Baz wasn’t any less mesmerized by him. Bronze curls, blue eyes, a face dusted with moles. He stood there for a moment, panting heavily, then gasped out “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” He ran up to Baz, seemingly blind to the people already waiting. “I heard I could get a visa here?”

Baz raised an eyebrow at the questioning tone. “Did you or did you not?”

The boy nodded with so much emotion that his curls threatened to bounce right off his head.

“Sorry,” Baz said, not sorry. “You’re too late.”

Fiona leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Come on, Baz. Give him a chance. He’s as perfect as we’ll get.” She had a point. “Plus, he’s cute.” She had two points.

Baz crossed his arms, looking the boy up and down. “Where do you come from, then?”

He only shrugged.

“Lovely town,” Baz deadpanned. “I have a cousin there.”

The boy flushed and stammered. “I’m serious!” He picked at his elbow. “I don’t remember my childhood. I was found on the road one night, half-unconscious and on the edge of hypothermia. I remembered my name, but nothing before that.” He looked up, and his eyes were shining. “Well, almost nothing. I remember screams and a loud noise. And I remember a voice telling me where to go.”

Baz could see Fiona grinning dangerously in the corner of his vision.

“What’s your name?” Baz asked.

“Simon!”

Baz laughed. This couldn’t be easier. “And where did you say you needed to go?”

Simon grinned. “I’m trying to get to Paris!”

Baz glanced to his aunt with a smirk. “Funny. So are we.” He looked Simon over one more time. He really did look like _that_ Simon…

“I believe we may have a way to get you there.”


	3. Learn To Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff fluff fluff fluff fluff (and some plot I guess)

“There’s no way,” Simon insisted, shaking his head. “I can’t possibly pose as the Mage’s Heir!”

“Relax,” Baz smirked. “Fi and I will teach you everything you need to know.” 

Perhaps in other circumstances, Simon would have asked why Baz knew all of this, but it didn’t occur to him.

“We’ll start with history,” Baz explained, “then etiquette. We can work on dancing, then take a break.”

“This is going to be harder than I thought,” Simon mumbled, sitting down on a stray chair. “Will it actually work?”

Fiona scoffed. “Sure, if you work hard enough.” 

“I will, trust me!” Simon sighed. “It’s just…” His voice trailed off. 

“Use your words, Simon,” Baz said softly. 

“How do you become the person you’ve forgotten you ever were?” Simon asked.

“Imagine another place,” Fiona suggested. “Another time.”

“Another world,” Baz added. 

Simon groaned, and shook his head. “I won’t be able to do this.” 

“A young tsesarevich like yourself shouldn’t give up that easily.” 

“Let’s start with family history,” Baz suggested. “You must remember _something_.”  
Fiona nodded in agreement. “Everyone remembers something about their family.”  
“Everyone who’s _normal_ remembers stuff,” Simon protested.

Fiona gave Simon a sad smile. “You are normal,” she assured him.

“It doesn’t feel like it. A normal person wouldn’t need help remembering their life. A life that might not even be theirs!”

“That’s what we’re here for,” Baz told Simon. “To help you remember. To help you learn.” 

“For example,” Fiona said, “your mother, the tsarina, was highly religious.”

Simon crossed his arms and sighed. “Everyone in Russia is religious.”

Baz shook his head disappointedly. “Bad example, Fiona.”

“Though, I do remember a lady,” Simon said. “She wore a long dress. Blue, I think. She always asked me if I had said my prayers.”

“The royals always prayed for their mother and father,” Baz said. “Prayed for their sisters and brothers. Prayed for Russia herself.”

“Mother and father, sister and brother, Russia herself,” Simon repeated to himself. 

Fiona smiled at Simon. “Good.” 

The three of them spent the afternoon learning about the Solsberi family history, then proper etiquette. He knew which spoon to use at the dinner table, and knew all too much about the prince’s siblings.

“You’ve worked hard today, but, we’re not done yet,” Fiona said, sitting down on a chair. 

“What d’you mean?” Simon asked. 

“You’re not a true prince until you can dance,” Fiona cooed from where she sat. “And lucky for you, Basil here is an excellent dancer.”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “Basil?”

“It’s short for Basilton, my middle name,” Baz explained when seeing the look on Simon’s face. 

“Middle name?” Simon teased. 

“Tyrannus Basilton,” Baz said bitterly. “My parents were idiotic when naming me.” 

“I don’t think they were idiotic,” Simon said, quietly enough so that only Baz could hear. 

Baz blushed and gave Simon a small smile before regaining his regal composure. “Right, let’s see,” Baz murmured, mostly to himself. “Take my hand.”

“Does it matter which one?” 

“My right,” Baz replied easily. Simon complied, and Baz nodded. “Now put your other hand on my back.”

Simon yelped, looking scandalised. “What?!”

“I’m asking you to put a hand on me, not kiss me. Don’t act so horrified.”

Simon squirmed, a blush growing on his cheeks, then lightly touched his hand to Baz’s lower back.

Baz nodded again. “Alright. You’ll lead.”

“Lead?” Simon echoed. 

Baz held back a groan. “Step forward with your left foot,” he directed. 

Simon did. 

“Good. Now, step to the side with your right foot.”

“Like this?” 

“Yes. And now, bring your left to meet the right one.”

“Have I done it right?” Simon asked.

“Nearly,” Baz said. “Step back with your right foot.”

“Okay,” Simon said, stepping back. 

“Now, step to the side with your left foot.”

“Was that it?”

“Yes. Finally, bring your right foot to meet the left one.”

“That wasn’t so bad,” Simon said, grinning at Baz.

“Are you ready for the next part?” Baz asked.

Simon nodded. 

“Now, we’re going to rotate while we do that.” 

“Do what?” Simon questioned, tilting his head. “The stepping?”

“Yes.” 

Simon pouted, trying to follow his instructions. “Why are there so many directions?”

Baz tightened his grip on Simon’s hand, doing his best not to crush it. “It's a square, Simon.” 

“Why didn't you just say that?”

Baz gritted his teeth. “Every two steps, you turn a quarter.”

Simon promptly stepped on Baz’s foot.

“Oh god!” Simon gasped, letting go of Baz’s hand. “I-- Baz, I'm so sorry!” He winced, as if his foot was the one smashed in. “I knew I couldn't do this.”

Baz shook his foot in the air, sucking in a breath. “It's--” he shook his head. “No. It's not fine.” He pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead. “I just--” he took a step back. “I need a moment.”

He turned on his heel and rushed over to where his aunt sat cackling in the corner, leaving Simon alone to stare after him like a lost puppy.

“I can't do this,” Baz snarled. “He's infuriating. He dances like he's never used his legs in his life. The worst case of two left feet I've ever seen.”

Fiona shrugged, still laughing. “What do you expect me to tell you? He's our best shot. Deal with it! ”

“I'm  _ trying _ ,” he snapped. “If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was doing it on purpose.”

“Look at him, Baz! He wouldn’t ever do it purposefully…” Fiona’s voice trailed off.

Baz followed her eyes, and looked over to where Simon was standing-- or rather, where he had been standing.

Now, he was waltzing in the center of the room, with a far away look in his eyes. It seemed to Baz that he was following, not leading. He held his arms out as if he were dancing with an invisible partner, but it didn't look silly. In fact, he looked perfectly natural, like dancing were something as easy as breathing. A faint smile played on his lips, and Baz could only stare.

Simon settled into a quiet rhythm, and Baz managed to tear his eyes away to glance at Fiona, who looked just as gobsmacked.

Baz gave her a questioning look, but she only shook her head. “I didn't teach him that…”

He glanced back to Simon and hesitated before calling out, “Simon?”

Simon stumbled, flailing as he caught himself. “Oh! Sorry! Did you say something?”

Baz walked closer, holding out a hand. “Could we… try again?”

Simon pursed his lips, confused, but took Baz’s hand. “Sure, I guess so.”

Baz smiled a little. “And… do you think you could dance the way you were just now?”

Simon flushed. “Oh. I-- I don’t think I was doing it right.”

“Trust me.”

With a questioning look, Simon allowed him to place a hand on his back. He gripped Baz’s shoulder in return. Baz took the first step, and Simon echoed it effortlessly. Within a few seconds, they’d fallen into a pattern, slowly circling the center of the room. Simon looked much more relaxed, eyes nearly closed, and unlike their previous struggle, neither said a word. Anything they needed to communicate, their feet told the story.

Somewhere in the back of Baz’s mind, he registered how small Simon seemed compared to when they’d been walking side by side. Objectively, he was the same size. But here, it reminded him of some long-forgotten memory, a much smaller figure who he’d spun about, light as a feather. 

It had nothing to do with Simon, of course. But in his mind’s eye, he couldn’t help but put him in that pale blue suit, drenched in cool moonlight in an otherwise dimly lit room. He vaguely remembered the soft music that had played that night, quiet piano that had hardly even reached his ears, the loudest sound in the room but still almost imperceptible.

He found himself humming to himself in time with their movements, though he wasn’t sure he could remember the exact melody. Simon smiled, leaning closer to Baz to listen.

Slowly, Baz’s eyes adjusted, Simon’s illusory suit unfurling to reveal his real clothes as the sun filtered in through the windows to flush out the moon’s light. 

Baz shook his head and clutched Simon’s hand tighter. He was being ridiculous, of course. That was the past, only recollections of something that would never happen again.

Baz had to focus on the now. On the boy waltzing with him. Simon was tangible. Simon was real, and there, in his arms.

Baz smiled and pulled him flush against his chest.

Simon was now. 

 

Simon and Baz spent another hour waltzing around the stage while Fiona dozed off on the soft chairs in the theater. 

Baz was the one to finally call it a night. He saw Fiona sleeping, and decided it was best to stop and go home. 

“Besides,” Baz had said to Simon, “my feet hurt from all the dancing. I haven’t danced for that long in years.” 

Simon simply grinned at him.

He watched as Baz poked his aunt, hopeful to wake her up. Baz tapped her and whispered her name, but nothing seemed to work. 

“I’ll leave a note,” Baz said. “Tell her where we’ve gone.”

“We?” 

Baz nodded. “I figured I could walk you home.”

“Thank you,” Simon said, smiling again.

The two walked out of the abandoned palace and were greeted by snow, which covered every available surface.

“I’ve always liked the snow,” Simon commented upon seeing the white flakes.

“Fiona hates it,” Baz told him. “She never had to deal with it when I was younger. She would usually stay inside all day.”

“That sounds like Fiona.”

“I always used to throw snowballs at Fiona when she stood in front of the massive glass window,” Baz told Simon, laughing. “She’d jump every time, afraid that she’d get hit.”

“Massive glass window?” Simon repeated, tilting his head. “Baz, is there something you’re not telling me?”

Baz stopped in his tracks, and grabbed Simon’s hand, pulling him around so they were both facing the old  Yusu p ov  P alace.

“I used to live in one of those palaces,” Baz said, pointing at the turrets. “Fiona did as well.” 

“What happened? Why don’t you anymore?”  
Baz sighed, and turned to face Simon. “I told my parents I was gay,” he said, lowering his voice. 

“They kicked you out for being gay?” 

“Not so loud, would you?” Baz said, shushing Simon. “They couldn’t let anyone know that they have a gay son. They’re not sure what would happen to the Grimm-Pitch wealth, to their status…” Baz’s voice trailed off. 

Simon walked over to where Baz stood and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“Fiona said that if they kicked me out, she’d leave as well.” Baz laughed, sadly. “We both know how that went.” 

“I’m sorry,” Simon said, his hand still on Baz’s shoulder. 

“Don’t be,” Baz said, stepping away from Simon. “Fiona and I have been fine.”

“Fine? How could you be fine?” Simon exclaimed. “I know what it’s like. I live on the streets, too.”

“Not for long, though,” Baz reassured. “Once the Dowager Empress recognizes you as the heir, she’ll make sure you never go hungry again.”

Simon huffed. “That’s _if_ she recognizes me as the heir.” 

Baz thought for a moment, and his face lit up. “Simon, close your eyes.”

“What? Why?”

“Close your eyes.” 

Simon gazed over Baz suspiciously before reluctantly shutting his eyes.  

“Now put your hand out.”

Simon did. 

Baz reached in his coat pocket, and pulled out something cold and metallic. 

“Open.”

Simon opened his eyes, and stared down at the item that sat in his hand.

It was a pocket watch, a gold one, without a chain. There were three large S’s on the front of the watch, in fancy cursive. On the back was a shield or badge of some kind, split into quadrants, each with a different kind of design engraved inside. To either side, a gilded dragon and lion protected it. 

“Fiona and I think it was the Grand Duke’s,” Baz told him. “We want you to have it.” 

Simon was speechless. He kept glancing down at the watch, then at Baz.

“I think I remember something like this,” Simon said at last, focusing on the watch. “Something heavy, with a chain.” He paused for a moment, collecting his thoughts. “I was upset because it kept bouncing against my chest when I walked, but my mother wouldn’t let me take it off. She said it was a gift, and I should be grateful.”

“Simon,” Baz whispered, and set his hand over the other boy's, still on the watch.

Simon looked up at Baz, met his eyes, and continued talking. “There were people dancing…they were all dressed beautifully. I remember the colored windows.”

“Stained glass?” Baz offered in a hushed tone, not wanting to interrupt. 

“Yeah,” Simon breathed. His eyes shone, and his expression made Baz think he wasn't really in the here and now-- he was lost somewhere far away and long ago.

Baz’s lips parted, and he leaned closer.

“Hey!”

Baz jolted back, looking up. Fiona stood in the doorway, arms crossed.

“Do you two know what time it is? We're going to miss the last train, and we still haven't bought our tickets.”

Baz cursed under his breath. “The tickets… do we even have enough money?”

Simon pursed his lips, eyebrows pulling together. “Well…”

Baz glanced to him, raising an eyebrow. “‘Well’ what?”

“Close your eyes and hold out your hand,” Simon told him.

Baz huffed, shutting his eyes and holding out a hand.

Baz felt something small dropping into his palm. He waited until Simon said he could, then he opened his eyes and looked down. 

All Baz could manage was a whisper. “Simon...”

“The nurses that found me discovered it, sewn in my underclothes,” Simon explained quietly. “They said not to tell anyone until I had to.”

A diamond. Baz wasn’t sure exactly how much it was worth, but it had to be at least ten carats, more than enough for three one-way tickets.

“Holy shit,” Fiona whispered.

Simon flushed a little. “I figured, if I can help…”

“It’s perfect,” she grinned. “All that’s left now is to buy the tickets.”

Baz smirked. “We’re going to Paris.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned!


	4. We'll Go From There

Simon coughed, trying in vain to wipe the smoke from his vision. Baz walked confidently ahead as if it didn’t bother him, but Simon could see his eyes watering despite the facade. 

He and Fiona led him through the bustling train station, through crowds of uncaring people, through smoke and grime, through narrow passages, and past a man who looked quite familiar. Before he could register it, the man was walking up to them and falling into a deep bow.

“Your highness!”

Simon took a step back, surprised. “Who--”

Fiona smiled brightly. “Count Wellbelove! It’s been years since I saw you.”

Baz rolled his eyes and leaned close to Simon to whisper in his ear. “His daughter was crazy for me when we were younger. Hopefully the whole ‘peasant’ thing will keep her away from me if she’s travelling with him.”

Simon nodded thoughtfully. That sounded right, didn’t it? A daughter-- he wasn’t quite sure of her name. Something starting with an A. He wasn’t sure when Baz had explained this during their lesson, but it was clear in his mind.

The Count looked up at Simon, smiling. “It’s been so long since I last saw you! Aggie would be thrilled.” He met Baz’s eyes and seemed to recognize him as well. “Don’t I know you, too, boy?”

Baz bristled at being called ‘boy’. “Sorry, you must have the wrong man.”

The count chuckled, standing and straightening out his coat. “Pitch, is it? Be sure to take good care of the Prince, will you?” He winked. “Wouldn’t want to lose him again.” He held Simon’s gaze for a moment.

A sharp whistle interrupted them, and Simon jumped a little.

“C’mon,” Fiona said, ushering the two boys to the train. They followed her, Simon more reluctantly than Baz. Noticing Simon’s hesitation, he sighed and grabbed Simon’s hand, tugging him forward.

Simon shook Baz off of him and stared out at the train station reminiscently. 

It hadn’t sunk in for Simon that he was leaving Russia. Leaving his homeland. Leaving everything he knew, and what was familiar to him.

But now, as he stood by himself, suitcase in hand, the realization set in that he was leaving, never to return.

Simon closed his eyes and let out a breath, then turned and boarded the train, joining Baz and Fiona where they stood in the hallway. 

“You two can go to the back,” Fiona told them.

“But, Fi-”

“No ‘but’s,’” Fiona said, cutting her nephew off. “Front car is for adults. There’s more room back there, anyways.”

Baz muttered, “But I  _ am _ an adult,” though the whiny tone contradicted his claim.

Fiona stood her ground, pointing her finger towards the back of the train.

Baz rolled his eyes and tugged on Simon’s jacket. He lead them both to the back of the train, into an empty compartment. 

Fiona smirked as she watched Simon and Baz trudge to the back of the train. Smiling, she sat down on the seat, and propped her legs up on her bag. Once settled in, Fiona gazed out the window mindlessly, and thought of her past. Thought of Nico… 

Nicodemus Petty. A count, of high status like herself, whom she had fallen madly in love with. The two met in Russia, just after Baz was born, and immediately took a liking to one another. It was a torrid affair (Fiona had cheated on her husband), but, nonetheless, they had made things work.

That was, until the Tsar was killed.

Nico fled Russia upon hearing of the death of the Solsberi family, afraid that the police might come after him, too.

Later that year, Fiona sent countless letters to Nico, begging him to take her and Baz in after they were kicked out. 

He didn’t answer any of them. 

Fiona had her reasons for being worried about visiting Nico. But she cast aside her thoughts, and put on a brave face for Simon. 

Hopefully, Nico would be able to grant them an audience to the Dowager Empress, the Grand Duke’s grandmother. And if not, they would all lay low in Paris, and go from there. 

Meanwhile, a few cars down from Fiona’s, Simon couldn’t help but pace up and down the train. He sighed before stopping and leaning on one of the railings. 

What if the Dowager Empress didn’t recognize him as the heir? Would he return back to Russia with Fiona and Baz? Or would they stay in Paris? 

Simon groaned, and ran his fingers through his hair.

Why had he even agreed to do this in the first place? It would’ve been easy to say no. But, there was something inside of him that desperately hoped that this would help him find out who he truly was.

Baz, still in his and Simon’s car, was also pacing. He couldn’t stop thinking about Paris, and what would happen when they got there. He also couldn’t stop thinking about Simon… 

_ Simon _ _.  _

Simon, who defied all of the odds against him. Simon who worked so hard that even Baz was starting to believe he really was the Mage’s Heir. Simon, whom Baz seemed to admire more and more…

It was when the train lurched to a stop that Simon, Baz, and Fiona finally reunited. The two boys ran up to the front car, where Fiona was still seated. 

“Stay here,” she told them. “I’ll go figure out what’s happened.” 

As soon as Fiona left, they heard the bang.

Simon jumped in his seat, and squeezed his eyes shut. Baz wasted no time, and pulled the now trembling boy to his side.

“Shh, Simon, it’s okay,” Baz whispered to him. 

“No, it’s not!” Simon exclaimed, freeing himself from Baz. “There were noises like that-- loud ones. They shook the whole room.” He was getting frantic.

“Simon!” Baz said, grabbing Simon’s hands and tugging him back down to sit beside him. 

“There were people everywhere,” Simon continued. “They were all running and screaming. The noises kept getting louder, and closer--”

“Simon, you’re taking this too far!”

“I’m not!” Simon protested, tears now streaming down his face. “That-- that awful day-- is all I can remember!”

Baz kept quiet as Simon slumped down in the seat and buried his face in his shoulder. He emerged after a minute, face flushed red and damp curls pressed to his forehead. 

“Who do you think I am?” he asked after a moment, voice still shaking.

“I…” Baz’s voice trailed off. He sighed in defeat. “I don’t know.”

Simon shook his head and turned away from Baz. “You put these ideas in my head, and now I’m starting to believe them.”

Baz was about to apologize when Fiona came rushing back. “What color are our passports?” she asked, a panicked look on her face.

“White,” Baz responded, mind still wrapped up in comforting Simon.

Fiona groaned. “They’re taking everyone with a white passport off the train and shooting them! They made an example of someone, too.”

“Who?” Baz asked.

“Count Wellbelove,” Fiona sighed. She couldn't meet Simon's eyes.

“ _ No _ ,” Simon whispered, and he fell into Baz’s side again. 

“He’s gone,” Fiona said. She set her jaw. “And that’ll be us, too, if we don’t get off this damned thing.”

The train lurched again, and slowly began to move forwards, down the railroad tracks.

“Shit,” Baz hissed, seeing soldiers walking up to their compartment.

“What do we do?” Fiona groaned again.

“We jump,” Simon said, grabbing their bags with a determined look that sharply contrasted his previous panic.

“Are you crazy?” Baz asked with wide eyes. 

“It’s the only option we have!” Simon exclaimed. “We can either die on this train or die trying to get off!”

“He has a point,” Fiona complied, reaching for her bag as well.

Baz ran a hand through his hair before pulling his bag out from underneath the seat.

The three runaways hurried down the corridors of the train and pushed open the door of the caboose.

“On three,” Simon said. “One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

They jumped. 

Fiona wasn’t sure how they survived the jump. Baz was certain he’d done something to his leg, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to worry Simon or Fiona who were several feet ahead of him, suitcases in hand and feet trudging relentlessly through the snow. 

A few miles later, they found themselves in a foreign city and, to Baz’s relief, called a taxi. The taxi, however, only brought them so far before stopping on the side of the road. The driver insisted they get out, and Baz and Fiona had already gotten out before Simon crossed his arms and refused, asking what the problem was.

Fiona and Baz watched from a few feet away as he began talking to the driver seamlessly. 

“Look at him, rattling off in french,” Fiona commented, a proud look on her face.

Baz smiled. “Don’t be surprised if we get away with this, Fiona. You’ve taught him well.”

Fiona noticed the soft expression on Baz’s face and sighed. “He’ll break your heart,” she told him. 

“ _ What _ ?” Baz scoffed. “You don’t really think I fancy Simon, do you?”

“I’m just saying,” Fiona said, raising her hands in defense. “If things go well in Paris, then you’ll never see him again.” 

Baz remained silent. As much as he wanted to argue with Fiona, deep down inside he knew she was right. 

“Fiona, Baz!” Simon exclaimed, running over to them with their luggage. “This is as far as the taxi will go. But the driver said that Paris isn’t far. He said you can see it just over that hill!”

“We made it,” Fiona grinned. “I knew we would.” 

Simon and Baz shot each other a look-- Fiona’s endless complaining throughout their journey put a sure damper on the hope that they’d actually make it to Paris.

Fiona and Baz took their bags from Simon and started ahead of him, Fiona running and Baz trying not to limp, up over the hill that stood in front of them.

“Simon, come on!” Baz shouted. “You have to see this.”

Simon stood there, frozen.

Paris was several steps ahead of him.

_ Paris _ . 

Paris was the one thing he was certain of.

And now that he was there, he wasn’t sure he could do it. Pose as the Grand Duke. Learn the truth to his past. Discover his future. 

It was all too much for him.

For years, he had lived only with dreams of leaving Russia for Paris, to find someone,  _ anyone _ , who might be looking for him.

The fear that nothing waited for Simon in Paris scared him. 

But Simon knew he had come too far to give up now.

There still was a chance that he was the Grand Duke. That someone might be in Paris waiting for him to come home.

Simon would take this journey one step at a time.

He didn’t know what Paris held for him, but his dreams encouraged him to keep going. 

Simon let out a nervous breath before grabbing his suitcase from the ground and running up the hill to join Fiona and Baz. 

Simon didn’t stop until he reached the top, and when he got there, he, too, was dumbfounded by the view.

Off in the distance ahead of them lay Paris, lights glittering and flashing just down the hill. Buildings stretched on for miles and miles, and the sun was just setting, flushing the sky pink at the horizon. In the middle of it all stood the Eiffel Tower, taller than any of the buildings Simon could see. 

Simon smiled.

He felt as if he was home at last.


	5. Paris Is The Key

Simon had been waiting to see Paris his whole life, and now that he was here, he could hardly believe it.

They had woken early that day, per Fiona’s request. They both showered and dressed in the new suits Baz had bought them-- a grey one for Simon, and a dark green one for himself.  (Simon thought the green complemented his eyes.) They had a delightful breakfast at the hotel, then set out to tour the city. 

Paris was even more beautiful than Simon had imagined it. The city had been gorgeous when they arrived, but when the sun set it somehow managed to become even more stunning. As the last drops of light left the skyline, the city gleamed with countless lights. Even when Simon thought for a moment that Paris had filled itself with stars, he looked up and saw the real stars hanging even brighter in the sky.

Fiona acted as their tour guide. She seemed to know as much about the city as the locals, showing them popular attractions and her favorite cafés (which Simon didn’t oppose to).

Baz, unsurprisingly, took a liking to the culture and history of Paris. It was nearly impossible to get him to leave each museum. He’d take ages reading every plaque and examining every artefact or piece of art. (Fiona fell asleep several times, and Simon got lost, usually in an attempt to find a snack.) 

Once Baz and Simon had both had enough, Fiona walked them back to the hotel before setting off on her own to find Nico. 

“Go on and get some rest,” she told them when they arrived at the hotel. “We have a busy night tomorrow. Don’t want to miss the ballet.” 

“What show?” Baz asked as he held the door open for Simon, who yawned and stumbled through it. 

“ _ Swan Lake _ ,” she smiled. “I think you’ll enjoy it-- if you’re awake for it, that is. Get some sleep. I’ll see you both tomorrow.” 

Baz nodded and bid Fiona goodnight. She turned away from the hotel and and kept walking through the night which, in any other city, would have been lit only by street lamps, but in Paris was nearly as bright as the day.

She kept walking down the cobbled streets until she stood in front of a building with a bright neon sign that read  _ The Watford Club _ . The man standing outside the club nodded and opened the door.

Inside, the club was bustling with life and spirit. Red wallpaper was flaking and peeling in some places, reminding Fiona of a run-down palace-- one all the exiled counts and countesses in the club knew all too well. One that Fiona knew. 

Fiona strode over to the bar, seating herself at a stool and ordering a beer. 

Cigar and drink in hand, she turned away from the bar to look out at the crowd. She searched for the one face she was certain of. The one face that had appeared in her dreams.

Just as she’d worried he wasn’t there, he appeared in the corner of her vision.

“Nicodemus Petty,” Fiona said, gaining his attention. 

He spun around where he was standing, and smirked when he saw Fiona. 

The best way to describe him was desaturated, like someone had covered him in a light coat of gray paint. He was thin and tall and pale-- and a handsome devil.

“Look who made it to Paris,” Nico teased. “I thought your family kicked you out.”

“They did.”

Nico laughed in shock, sharp and dry. “And you survived?”

“I had to,” Fiona snapped. “For Baz.” 

“He’s still alive?” 

Fiona rolled her eyes and pushed aside Nico’s comment. “I’m not here to talk about Baz,” she said through gritted teeth. 

“Then what are you here for?”

“You.” 

Nico eyed Fiona suspiciously. “The Fiona I knew wouldn’t have waited seven bloody years before trying to find me.” 

“You don’t think I tried to contact you after my brother kicked Baz and I out?” Fiona asked, exasperated. “I sent countless letters, Nico. None of which were answered.”

He raised an eyebrow. “None of which were received.”

Fiona hesitated. “So you weren’t ignoring me?”

Nico sighed. “Not purposefully.”

“Not purposefully?” 

“It’s complicated,” Nico murmured, turning away from Fiona to avoid eye contact.

Fiona shook her head angrily. “It always is.” 

“I’m glad you’re alive,” Nico whispered after a moment. His voice was soft, and Fiona could sense the vulnerability behind it. “And I’m glad that you’re here.” 

Fiona shrugged, leaning closer. “Then I don’t see the problem.”

He chuckled. “Fiona, it’s been years. You can’t be serious.”

“I thought you said you knew me.”

He smiled.

“Oh, come on,” she grinned, tugging on his arm and dragging him from the bar. “Think of all the fun we had.” 

He pulled his coat closed as the wind picked up. “That was before.”

She sat down on a bench nearby, and Nico followed suit.

“I know people say to let go of the past, but what if I don’t want to?” she asked, shaking her head. “What if I want things to go back to how they were in Russia?”

“You know things can’t be that way anymore.”

She turned to face him, expression fierce. “Says who?” she smirked. “I've always played by my own rules.” 

She grabbed the sides of Nico’s collar and pulled him closer, smashing their lips together. He didn’t seem to mind the excessive force, melting against her touch. Even though his heart was pounding like it was his first kiss, his lips moved against hers with something akin to muscle memory, remembering when they'd been younger and dumber and richer and happier-- but just as in love, he realized.

When they pulled back, he couldn't help but laugh. “I could get used to that.”

Fiona grinned, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I knew you’d say that.” She took a step back, smirking. “You know… there’s something else.”

“I should have known you had an ulterior motive.” He started to stand.

“Wait!” She insisted. “It’s about Simon.”

He sighed. “She’s had enough, Fiona.” He didn’t have to say who “she” was.

“Come on,” Fiona begged, pulling on Nico’s arm and tugging him back down on the bench beside her. “He’s the perfect imposter-- in fact, Baz thinks he might actually be the Grand Duke!”

Nico sighed. “That’s what all the others say. They all claim they’re ‘perfect.’ Yet, none of them can pass the Dowager’s test.” 

“Once you see him you’ll understand. He has a charm to him. He’s not like the others.” 

Nico shrugged in defeat. “Alright. I’ll get him in to see the Dowager.” 

Simon was exhausted when he got back to the hotel.

He wasted no time in showering, then changing into pajamas and climbing in bed. He grabbed the pocket watch and stared at it mindlessly before drifting into an uneasy sleep. 

That night, Simon had a dream. 

It had started off well enough, a colorful party filled with beautiful dresses and bright decorations. The music was happy and full of energy without being overwhelming. 

The scene quickly dissolved into madness. 

The lights grew brighter and brighter, until they were nearly blinding. Dresses tore spontaneously, and stains grew on them like crimson petals. The music swelled before being taken over by crashing cymbals. Only a moment later, a horrible boom, much louder than the music, threatened to burst eardrums. It only kept going, over and over, unceasing blasts that grew louder.

Keeping time with the sound, like a deadly waltz, the temperature rose steadily, peaking at each crack. There was no flame, but the licking heat felt like it could only have come from cursed hellfire.

Baz heard the screams. 

He ran towards them, and found Simon tossing and thrashing about in his sleep, murmuring senselessly as well.

Baz rushed over to the boy, sat on the side of the bed, and gently shook him awake.

“Simon?” he whispered. 

Simon jolted up, sweating and panting heavily. He saw Baz sitting at his side and immediately curled up next to him. 

“Shh,” Baz whispered, pulling Simon closer. “It’s just a nightmare. That’s all it was.” 

“Stay with me,” Simon said, his voice quivering. 

“I will. I promise.” 

Baz sat with him for a few moments, running his fingers through Simon’s damp curls. Simon’s labored breathing slowed, and for a moment Baz thought he’d fallen asleep again, until he started to run a finger over the engravings on the pocket watch still in his hand. They settled into a quiet peace, Baz’s chin pressed to the top of Simon’s head.

“Who do you think I am?” Simon asked at last. “The Grand Duke?” 

“If I were the Dowager Empress, I’d want you to be him. Smart, resilient. Brave and stubborn, too.” 

Simon gave a shaky laugh. “Is that what you think I am?”

“I think it’s what you’ve become.”

Simon sighed, then turned and faced Baz. “Do you really think I might be him?”

“I want to believe you’re the boy I danced with many years ago,” Baz murmured.

“I don’t understand.”

“I was ten,” Baz said. “The Tsar had invited me and my family to a grand winter ball.”

“A winter ball,” Simon repeated.

“While we were there, my parents had forced me to dance. They said they wanted me to ‘show off my skills,’ and ‘impress a lady or two.’”

“You were only ten!” Simon exclaimed.

Baz simply nodded. 

“So did you? Dance with someone?” 

“Yes,” Baz admitted. “A boy, actually. We spun around the dim room for as long as we could, weaving our way through everyone who attended. People smiled and laughed at us.”

“You’re making me feel I was there too,” Simon said, still fidgeting with the watch. 

“Maybe you were,” Baz prompted. 

Simon thought long and hard for a moment. “I remember a ballroom, with bronze detailing everywhere. It was terribly cold...I think a window was broken.” 

Simon, losing himself in a memory, stood up and walked towards the center of the room. “Someone grabbed my hand,” he said. “I danced with them. Not for long, though. His father came and pulled him away. Said not to dance with a boy…”

Baz, stunned, jumped up from the bed and stood across from Simon. “I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to,” Simon said. His voice was barely a whisper. “I remember.” Simon smiled at Baz. “It was you.”

He nodded. “I danced with the heir that night. I danced with  _ you _ .” 

“Does that mean?” Simon’s voice trailed off.

Baz nodded again. “You are the Grand Duke.” 

The two stared at each other breathlessly, mouths hanging open. 

Baz moved closer to Simon, beginning to close the distance between them. As if in perfect sync, the two boys leaned in to one another, desperate for the other. Desperate for  _ something _ _.  _

Baz realized what was happening, and stopped himself.

He pulled away from Simon, who was just inches away from his mouth.

Simon stared at Baz, as if to ask why he'd stopped. Simon remained silent though, and watched as Baz lowered himself to the ground, until he was kneeling in front of Simon. 

“Your Highness.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the notes from chapter one being stuck. I'm not sure how to remove them.

**Author's Note:**

> For those who didn't want to read this chapter for the warnings:  
> Eleven-year-old Simon Solsberi, the heir to the Russian throne, is at a party with his family when a series of explosions kill everyone else there. He hits his head due to the force of the blast. He runs from the party.
> 
>  
> 
> Stay tuned, we'll be updating every Sunday!


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